Quiet Desperation
by KelsChaos
Summary: Dean is Sam's protector, always has been. But what can he do when there's no way to look after his brother? What sacrifices will he make to save the one he swore he'd protect? *Covers S2 Ep21 & 22


**Hey people, this is my first Supernatural fanfic and I really hope you enjoy it. The dialoge, for the most part, is taken directly from the scene from the beginning of Episode 22 and follows the plot exactly, I just delved into Dean's brain to see what was going through his mind. This is the result.**

*SPOILER* Don't read if you haven't watched Supernatural Season 2 Ep 21 and 22. Seriously.

I remember how happy I was to see Sam walking on that street in Cold Oak, so fucking happy that he was alive and not too badly injured. I remember calling his name because I had to be sure it really was him, that it wasn't simply a figment of my imagination. I remember him yelling my name and my heart nearly bursting out of my chest with joy; he was alive, he was alive and well and everything was okay. Except it wasn't.

I remember that one guy, tall and dark skinned and strong. I remember how he snuck up on my little brother and stabbed him. He stabbed Sammy right through the back and severed his spinal cord and punctured a hell of a lot more. I remember running to him as his body collapsed in on itself and he fell to his knees with a thump that resonated through my own body. I ran to him and skidded on my knees until I was right there, face to face with the brother I'd thought I'd lost. Bobby's footfalls faded into the distance as he chased the son of a bitch that had hurt my baby brother, but all I could focus on was the blood on my hand when I tried to assess Sam's injury. Blood that was thick and dark and oh-so-wrongly coating my hand and undoubtedly staining his beige jacket.

I remember trying to reassure him that he'd be okay and attempting to reassure myself at the same time. Sammy couldn't die, not like that. I remember telling him that I was there, that I was going to look after him because it was my job to look after my pain in the ass little brother. But he wasn't a pain, anything but a pain. He was my job, my joy, my light at the end of the swirling darkness of the tunnel I always found myself in. He was my brother and my best friend. I didn't think I could live without him.

I remember when he went limp in my arms, his breath coming in ragged gasps and his heartbeat slowing with every passing second. I remember a sudden deathly silence and, at that moment, I realized how much I truly hated silence. I screamed his name and shook him, willing him to flinch, to gasp, to open his eyes, to fucking breathe. But he didn't. He simply flopped like a wet noodle, boneless and lifeless.

I remember pulling his body into my embrace, pulling him so close to me in some kind of crazy attempt to get his heart pumping in rhythm with my own. All I could think about was how I used to hug him like this years back when little Sammy had nightmares. I could almost fool myself into thinking this was one of those moments, that he was still breathing and thinking and simply being. But there weren't any skinny arms that clung to me like I could save him from all life's dangers. He was too cold, too quiet, too unresponsive. All that was left was the empty shell of the brother I had raised and protected almost all my life.

I remember how my eyes had blurred with tears and how I had screamed his name out for the world to hear. Sam; my fallen baby brother, the only real family I had left. I remember burrowing my face into the crook of his neck, feeling his soft hair whisper against my face, and crying, sobbing harder than I think I ever have. I didn't even try to stop the flow of droplets down my face, I could care less about being strong. My fingers clenched the rough fabric of his jacket as I pulled him ever closer, refusing to relinquish the last connection we had. I didn't want to let him go because, if I did, he'd be gone forever. If I just kneeled here with him in my arms then maybe I'd wake up, find out it was just some horrible dream. Letting go would mean that I'd have to face reality.

I remember when Bobby walked back to where we were only to find me clutching my dead brother. He darted towards us with what could only be described as utter sorrow pooling in his eyes. I looked at him while choking back yet another sob. As much as I loved Bobby, I didn't want him to see me like this, so broken and defeated. Just as I was about to brush the tears from my cheeks, I glanced at him and saw that he was crying silently, running his fingers through Sammy's hair.

I remember everything I don't want to remember. I don't want to recall how it felt when Sam's blood coated my hand or when he breathed his last breath in my arms. I don't want to remember every vivid detail; the lines of pain on his face, the way his eyes glazed over and his lips parted with the last exhale. I don't want to remember how my name was the last thing he spoke. What I don't remember is what happened in the days following that. The last thing that comes to mind is Sammy's body still in my arms and darkness claiming my tired and weary body, the rest is a blur.

How I got here, I don't know. It was probably Bobby who had to insight to drive us to some remote and weathered cabin somewhere. I woke up this afternoon, at least, I think it was in the afternoon, and looked over to see Sam lying on a bed. At first I thought I had just had an extremely horrible nightmare, that my baby brother was fine and dandy. He honestly did appear like he was sleeping; his face looked relaxed, his body loose in the throes of a deep sleep. But I couldn't trick myself into believing that. His face was too pale, his chest too still. I had to hobble out of the room to retch as the sobs started up again.

But I couldn't stay away. I couldn't leave Sam's body all alone. I guess some part of me still believed he'd wake up, that he really was just sleeping. I stood at the door and watched him, just watched him, and noted how peaceful he looked. Was he in heaven? Was there even a heaven? I honestly wasn't sure of anything anymore, let alone damn angels or God or whatever else was supposed to be all good and helpful.

Bobby plodded into the house sometime later, seemingly without a care in the world. I didn't even realize he was gone and that kind of scared me. How could I hunt ghosts and demons when I couldn't even think straight? But then again, how could I hunt without the little brother I trusted to have my back? I blinked away tears as Bobby stepped into the other room.

"Dean? Brought you this back." He called, holding up a bucket of what I assumed was greasy chicken and two bottles of pop. Couldn't he tell that I wasn't hungry, that I just wanted to be alone?

"No thanks, I'm fine." I replied airily. Maybe he'd get the hint, maybe he'd leave me alone to mourn and weep and just drown in the chick-flick moment because the goddamn tears just wouldn't stop coming at me.

"You should eat something."

"I said I'm fine." I said, coating my words with venom so the words would get through his thick, impenetrable skull. I wasn't hungry, I just wanted to be alone with Sammy. I turned around and walked into the kitchen area, ignoring Bobby's gaze as I headed directly for the whiskey bottle and took a massive gulp of the burning liquid.

"Dean, I hate to bring this up, I really do.." I looked down at the floor, clenching my fists to try to reign in my anger. He could not be thinking about doing that, not so soon. He continued, ignoring my obvious discomfort; "but don't you think maybe it's time we bury Sam?"

"No." Why couldn't he get that I was just not fucking ready to let him go? Sam was my brother and I'd practically raised the kid from birth. He was my responsibility and I'd bury him when I was ready to do it, damn it. There had to be some supernatural way to bring him back, there had to be. I wasn't going to give up hope.

"But we could.. maybe-"

"What, torch his corpse? Not yet."

"I want you to come with me." He couldn't be serious, I had thought, Sam's cold and lifeless body was sitting not 10 feet away and he wass telling me to leave him!

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Dean, please."

"Why don't you cut me some slack?" I was thoroughly pissed at that point. My fucking brother, my fucking best friend had just died, and he wanted me to snap my fingers and get over it. Sammy was my baby brother, the only one I could truly count on, and he was gone. I couldn't take it.

"I just don't think you should be alone, that's all. I gotta admit, I could use your help. Something big is going down; end of the world big."

"Well then let it end!" I screamed, too tired and pissed to even try to hold it back.

"You don't mean that." At this I got right up in his face. I'd honestly had enough of his bullshit and I was going to tell him exactly what I meant

"You don't think so, huh? You don't think I've given enough? You don't think I've paid enough?" I could see it starting to sink in. I wanted to stop talking at that point, he'd gotten my message loud and clear, but I couldn't. I'd opened the floodgates to anger and the words wouldn't stop rushing out.

"I'm done with it, all of it. And if you know what's good for you turn around and get the hell out of here." He didn't move, only stared at me with slight fear and sadness. That sent me into a rage; how could he just ignore me like that? Couldn't he see I was speaking the truth, that I'd had enough of that shit, of everything. I'd had enough of losing people I was supposed to protect.

"GO!" I screamed at him and pushed him away before my brain could process anything. He flinched back in fear and I could see his normal calm demeanour breaking down, his hands started to shake and his eyes moistened with tears. It was then that I understood what I'd done; I had just yelled at and hurt the man who was like a second father to me and Sammy. He was always Sam's favourite, always giving him books and encouraging him to keep up in school. Bobby had basically adopted Sam as his son and I was screaming at him for not understanding. Of course he understood. I backed off then, moving as far away as I could from him in the confines of the small room so I wouldn't hurt him again.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please just go." I averted my gaze. I couldn't bear to look at him after what I did. He had just lost one son, and now the other was broken and royally pissed; I couldn't even begin to imagine what he was going through. I stumbled over a chair before gripping it for dear life, struggling to release my anger on that inanimate object instead of on Bobby. I could feel his gaze on me, probably judging to see if I'd lash out like a wounded animal again. Then he turned around, his shoulders heaving in a sigh, and started walking out the door.

"You know where I'll be." I did. I knew he'd go off and drink himself into oblivion. I also knew he'd be back the following day. Bobby was like that; he could never leave us when we were hurting. Not even when we screamed at him would he falter. We were his sons, blood or not, and nothing came before that. And I had just broken his heart.

I just stood there after he left, clutching that chair like it was the only thing keeping me chained to the earth, like I would have floated into nothingness without it's solidity reminding me I was still there. I could feel tears burning in my eyes but I refused to let them free; I had betrayed Bobby, but I had also let down Dad and Sammy. I was a screw up, a massive fucking screw up, and I just had to face that. I always let the ones close to me down.

As I stood there, a sudden wave of need washed over me. I simply had to see Sammy, I had to sit there with him so he wasn't alone, so I wasn't alone. So with wobbly, noodle-like legs I stumbled to his room, near collapsing on a chair overlooking his bed. With blurry eyes I examined his body; reacquainting myself with every line and mole and curve of his oh-so-familiar face. I couldn't imagine burning him, giving up my brother to the great beyond. Maybe it was selfish, but I didn't want him to have peace. I wanted him to stay in this hell with me because it made it easier for me to bear. Burning his face into my memory was no where close to having the real thing living and breathing and joking by you. God, how I wished he was sleeping.

I must have sat there for hours doing nothing but looking at him and remembering everything. I remembered how he felt in my arms when my mom let me hold him for the first time. I remembered how he felt in my arms when dad gave him to me and told me to run as fast as I could. I remembered raising him, encouraging him to speak and walk, to take the first step to school, to do the best he could on his sports and mathletes teams. I remembered him and dad always getting into fights because he was always so independent and strong-willed and how much it hurt when he told me he was going to Stanford and getting out of the life. I remembered holding his sobbing body the night after we found Jessica.

I remembered how his body felt in my arms after he took his final breath.

"You know when we were little and you couldn't have been more than 5, you just started asking questions." I just started talking; I didn't know why, didn't care that he couldn't hear me, that I probably sounded crazy. My voice sounded like crap, all plugged up and choked from the crying I'd done, but I didn't care. It felt good to talk to him, it always felt good to unload emotions on him as much as I avoided it.

"Like 'how come we didn't have a mom?', 'why did we always have to move around?', 'where'd dad go?' He'd take off for days at a time. I remember I begged you 'quit asking Sammy, man you don't want to know.' I just wanted you to be a kid, just for a little while longer.

"I always tried to protect you, keep you safe. Dad didn't even have to tell me, it was always my responsibility, you know? It's like I had one job, that one job, and I screwed it up. I blew it. And for that I'm sorry." The tears I tried to keep at bay couldn't be restrained anymore. My vision blurred and I felt dampness upon my cheeks. I rubbed at them quickly before continuing. I had to say this, I get to get this crap out of me before I exploded.

"I guess that's what I do. I let down the people I love. I let dad down and now I guess I'm just supposed to let you down too. How can I? Am I supposed to live with that? What am I supposed to do? Sammy? What am I supposed to do? What am I supposed to do?" I stood up as a wave of rage unlike anything I'd ever experienced washed over me. How could Sam do this to me? To Bobby? How could he let himself die like that? Why did he have to be so damn kind-hearted? There were so many questions, so many 'what if's', but nothing mattered. I could be angry all I wanted but it wouldn't bring my Sammy back. I was starting to think that nothing could.

I collapsed back into the wooden chair and wiped at my eyes again before running my fingers through my hair restlessly. There had to be some way to get him back, I knew there had to be something.

Then it hit me with a force I didn't expect. There was a way I could save him, a way I could bring him back to me. He'd never have to know either, it wouldn't be hard to keep it a secret, for a few years at least. Of course, Bobby would stick a knife in my side when he found out, and he would find out, but I could probably swear him to secrecy. If I had already gone through with it and Sammy was back there wouldn't be much he could do about it. He knew I would happily trade my life for his.

"I'm going to save you Sammy, don't you worry. You'll be up and being your pain in the ass self again." I said. I could almost see the colour starting to return to his too-pale features. I stood up and patted his arm before muttering, "I won't let you down too. I won't."

Silently, I turned and walked out of the room to gather the supplies I needed. I didn't once turn back to look at him. I knew the next time I would see him would be when he was alive and well, plus there was no way I could look at him laying like that anymore. It just reminded me of how I'd failed him. He was going to live, I was going to make sure of it. That was all that mattered.

I hopped into my Impala and started her up, revelling in the sweet purr she gifted me with. Metallica's 'For Whom The Bell Tolls' blasted from the speakers and I drummed the steering wheel and mumbled the lyrics with James Hetfield.

I was going to get Sammy back no matter what.

I was going to sell my soul.


End file.
